Feudal Seduction
by Networkling
Summary: A home to a series of sensual drabbles.
1. Repast

She tasted like peaches.

He liked peaches.

He liked her.

Every night, he showed that to her, his face buried in the crevice of her legs, tongue buried deep in her folds.

"You taste like peaches," he would whisper against her sun-kissed skin, breath running over her.

"Eat me," she would moan in return, and he would return to his meal.

Sometimes, she would return the favor.

He tasted like… Well, she didn't know what he tasted like.

She liked how he tasted though.

Humming as she bobbed her head up and down his hardened flesh, his hand clasped in her dark brown tresses.

"How do I taste?"

She would pull away; look him in the eyes with deceptive innocence before licking his tip again.

"Like oranges…" she finally figured out.

She liked oranges.


	2. Clashing

Musical, melodious, canorous.

Rin.

Naïve, youthful, innocent.

Rin.

Beautiful, exquisite, stunning.

Rin.

Womanly, feminine, girlish.

Rin.

Magnificent, glorious, celebrated.

Rin.

Rin was Rin, if you wanted to call her that. She was contradictory. She was human, but she wasn't. She was a woman, but she was a girl. She was naïve, but a vixen.

She tangled with him, pulled the cream sheets up to her chest and stuck her tongue out at him, eyes inviting. He fell, he descended upon her. Hands on flesh, skin to skin.

Night would past though, she'd return to being his ward… his _daughter_. Father dearest, she would call to him teasingly when he would watch her with lust, is something wrong?

She was so many things, so clashing in her nature. He would find himself lost within her, within her tangled web of sheets and lies. Black hair, brown eyes, she was a witch but she wasn't at the same time. She had him spinning, spinning and spinning, but then she'd reel him in and hold onto his manhood so hard he yelped.

And she would laugh.


	3. Over

It began to exist. Festering, it was, within the barren plains of his dried and blackened heart. It nestled and burrowed. He'd tried to claw it out, but the skin would tear and then it would heal before he could reach the heart beneath.

She'd find him like this, panting and on his knees. Her fingers would skim against his skin, running along his scars, hands rushing over smooth flesh. She rest her chin on his should, warm breath tickling his sensitive crust. Her black hair would fall over his shoulder, hiding her as her peach-colored lips softly trailed along the contours of his body.

"Enough," he would order. But she would continue, hands running lower and lower. South she would move, beneath the waist of his hakama, to the hardened and hot flesh below. He would groan and moan, leaning back against her as she dragged him down.

"Enough."

She continued.

"Enough."

She was unrelenting in her attack.

"Enou…"

Then there would be warmth and wetness and he would be rising and falling. All the while, she would sneer against his skin and whisper the words that he would never hear in his high.

"Never."


	4. Faulty

Lust and love. Some said there was a difference, some said not. Some said love could not fester without lust, some said the opposite. Some said love was the only saving grace, that lust was a sin. Some said lust was life, the blood running through their veins, and that love was nothing more than a delusion.

Did it really matter though?

To him, it did not.

Love did not exist to him, lust did.

He hated lust. It made him weak. It made him want, tied him to something when he was just a vagabond.

She. She was the one that did this to him. With black hair like his heart, and brown eyes like the dirt beneath his feet, she tempted him. The way she moved, the way she looked at him, the way her hands touched his in "innocence".

But when he fell to her charms, gave into her temptation, she was nothing near innocent.

Hands on him, mouth slightly agape, breathing on his lusting flesh, nestling her face against his loins.

Then he would take her, slip inside her and roughly move. Flesh hitting flesh.

She would whimper and scream, but he could see the desire and pleasure within her eyes.

"You make me weak," he would growl out, on the edge of the high.

"That's my goal," she would whisper with a smirk.

And he would soar.


	5. Subfusc

It was dark in color, the world he lived in. A mass of blacks, whites, and greys. The occasional blotch of crimson, but that too was dark, and a sign of the darkness within his mind. There was no pink or yellow. Such things were foreign, and as a xenophobe, he did not like the foreign.

Then she came along.

She was young, of eight or so when she waltzed into his life. She took the darkness and threw it away, painted color in his world.

He didn't like the color.

He painted it black and white again, threw water on the walls and let the color drip away. She would watch with brown eyes drooping in dismay. He'd turn to her and wait for her to run and scream. Instead, she picked up a brush and went back to painting.

He seethed.

The cycle repeated. Over and over they played the game. She paint, he'd wash it away, she'd try again.

She grew older too, wiser, smarter. She began to use tactics, diversions. She tried many, some worked, some failed, they never lasted.

But then came the fateful tactic. The tactic that smeared shades of red, pink, and peach into his world. She'd give herself to him, run her tongue against the grooves of his shell, whisper against his throbbing need. All the while, her lips painted every shade she could find.

He didn't wash away the color.


	6. Opposing

His tongue was wet against her skin, warm as he trailed from bosom to nether regions.

The opposite of how he was elsewhere, chillingly cold.

Her peach-colored lips were slightly agape, but only to breathe as he loved her body.

The opposite of how she was elsewhere, yammering relentlessly.

His hands, though calloused, were soft against her body.

The opposite of how he was elsewhere, rough fists.

Her movements were sure, certain of her feminine lure.

The opposite of she was elsewhere, shyly tentative.

They were different there, in those sheets. They were opposites, he was gentle and merciful, she was silent and alluring. To the world, he was the Killing Perfection, and she was his contrasting companion, the human girl whose smile rivalled the sun, but there, they were not.


	7. Verdant

He did not like the color green.

She did.

He did not like it because of what it symbolized. Harmony, growth, life, well-being, spring, positivity, tranquility.

She was those things embodied, so of course she and the color green went hand in hand.

He liked violence. Blood on his hands, the screams of his enemies. He liked to kill, to maim and to hurt. That was what life was to him, the misery and the agony.

She didn't like violence. She liked peace, soothing touch and gentle cooing. She chose to mend, to heal and to give. She would rush to the side of his enemies, lying on the field dying, and press her hands against the wounds in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

He would yank her away, and she wouldn't fight him. She would watch the fallen man with remorse, but she would not kick, claw, and scream.

He would take her too, right on the battlefield. He was brutal, violent in his lovings. She was soft, tender in the way she touched him, breathed on him, ran her tongue along the furrows of his crust. She would touch and she would taste, love him, show him the benevolence that didn't exist within him. In return, he'd show her the brutality, the viciousness that she could never possess.

And if she were wearing a green yukata that day, he would rip it to shreds.


	8. Apogee

The highest point, the highest peak. That could refer to anything. To a mountain, Mt. Fuji if you so select. To a feeling, happiness if you're of that ilk. To anything really, the peak, the climax, where you hit the top and all that's left is to fall down beyond that.

Of that height, she preferred the climax of passion, the carnal peak of intercourse. The one where her entire body prickled, her breath escaping her peach-colored lips in shaky bursts, and her hair stood on end, toes tingling.

He did too. The culmination of lust was nearly as fulfilling as the kill. And unlike the kill, he could reach this peak with her.


	9. Fervid

Her lips met his, her brown eyes closed as she tangled her delicate hands within his long silver hair. She was fevered in her attentions, rushed in passion to kiss and to touch.

He is not quite receptive. He stares at her in boredom, his lips cold and hard, unmoving, to her touch.

"Please…" she begs, heaving as she pulled away. Straddling his hips, she looked at him with pleading, wide eyes.

"Please what?" His voice is cool, as cold as it always is.

"Please fuck me," she breathes, a tingle shooting up her spine at the uncouth wording.

"Whatever you wish."

She returns to kissing him, he is still as dispassionate. She undresses him, he watches lazily. She slips her yukata off, not even a spark igniting in his golden eyes. Shakily she lowers herself onto his hardened member, he lets her do the work. When she is in the throes of passion, he finally takes part, flips her over on her hands and knees and thrusts until he joins her there.

His movements are fervid, finally.


End file.
